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The Idaho Falls Countdown

Song : I’m A Little Crazy- Morgan Wallen

I started thinking about how I ’ d tell my parents.

I couldn ’ t just say, “ Hey, I ’ m flying to Idaho Falls to meet a man I FaceTimed with for a week straight, who makes me laugh so hard I choke on my spit.

” That would’ve gone over well. Instead, I landed on something vague but safe: I was meeting up with some old friends near Yellowstone Park and booked an Airbnb in Idaho Falls to explore the little mountain town.

My parents didn’t ask too many questions—I'd always been the spontaneous, globe-trotting one in the family.

Houston to Idaho Falls? Just another random blip on my travel radar.

Back home, I threw myself into the kitchen.

I needed comfort food. My kind of comfort food.

I made curry chicken the way my grandmother taught me back home in Trinidad, letting the scent of garlic, curry powder, and thyme fill the house until even my dad poked his head in and asked when it’d be ready.

My parents devoured it like they hadn’t eaten in days.

It was one of those meals that reminded me who I was—Trini to the core, always looking for love, always finding it in food.

Cooking had always been one of my secret weapons.

A well-seasoned pot of curry could bring a man to his knees.

Too bad none of the ones before Jon could keep their pants on long enough to be worth feeding.I plated mine with rice and sent Jon a picture.

He sent back a million drooling emojis and told me I better bring that same energy to Idaho.

I laughed, washed the dishes, took Nacho and his brother out for their nightly pee parade, and then sprinted upstairs to shower.

I knew that man was going to call me. He was consistent like that.

At six on the dot, the FaceTime rang. He had this cute little habit of always calling when the sun dipped low like he wantedto catch the golden hour with me.

I answered with the news on in the background—Houston chaos in full swing.

A car chase. A shootout. Possibly a gator in someone’s backyard. Jon laughed, wide-eyed.

“Damn, y’all got Grand Theft Auto vibes every day there.”I asked him what was happening in Idaho Falls and he told me with a completely straight face:

“Some tourists tried to pet a bison again.” I lost it.

It was big news over there. That was the kind of place I was headed to—a town where the most dangerous thing was a fluffy, oversized cow with hooves. Then he hit me with it.

“Pack some church clothes.” I paused, mid-laugh.

“Excuse me?”

“I go to church every Sunday. It’s a Mormon church—but I’m not Mormon. I’m Southern Baptist. I just like to get my Jesus on.”

I stared at him, completely floored. This redneck, burly, hilarious man who could smoke fish and crack jokes was also spiritually grounded?

Was I was reading a rom-com script from The Twilight Zone?

Still, I understood it. I grew up Catholic and Pentecostal, in a country where religious festivals filled the calendar and Jesus was family.

I got it. He showed me his dinner—salmon he caught himself from the Snake River, smoked on a pellet grill like he was auditioning for some outdoor cooking show.

He was so proud of it, and I watched him plate it as if it was gold.

He looked like someone who belonged to the land, someone who made you feel grounded just by existing.

I couldn't believe how easy it felt to talk to him. No pressure, no weird innuendo, no subtle checks for exits. Just laughter and warmth. It wasn’t even sexual.

That was the wildest part. The connection was deeper than that, richer. It felt like…home.

By the time we hung up, I had six days left until I’d see him again, and I couldn’t keep still.

For the next four days, we were on FaceTime constantly.

I mean constantly. Like, brushing-teeth-together, fold-the-laundry-together, “hold on let me pee real quick” kind of constant.

We carried each other in our pockets, on our screens, through every part of the day.

He asked me what I liked to eat and drink, and I rattled off my list—Coke, hot fries, chicken livers and ground turkey for Nacho.

The next day, he FaceTimed me from the grocery store, loading everything into his cart.

Including chicken livers. For my dog. If that isn’t love, I don’t know what is.

I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop.

For him to slip up and reveal something horrifying like he collects toenails or has a secret wife in Montana.

But nothing came. Just steady affection.

Interest. Excitement. He even told his overbearing aunt about me, and said she was “curious about the mystery woman with the Caribbean spice.” Lord, I was falling.

With less than 72 hours to go, I looked down at my chipped nails and ashy ankles and had a mini panic attack.

I hadn’t done a damn thing to prepare. I hadn’t even packed.

I booked a nail, hair, and brow appointment at Katy Mills Mall for the next day, hit up my Under Armor plug to hold some cold-weather clothes, and made a mental list of what I’d need to survive bumfuck Idaho in late winter/spring.

We fell asleep on the phone that night, and I couldn’t even remember who knocked out first.

The next morning, I woke up early, showered, texted him a good morning selfie with my bonnet on, and warned him I’d be off the grid until 4 p.m. My mall day was a full-blown mission.

Nails, toes, brows, then hair. I made it through by imagining his reaction when he saw me with fresh curls and a new matching set.

I hit Under Armor hard, stocked up on cozy hoodies, fleece-lined leggings, and snow boots that looked both cute and practical.

Because even if I died in a snowbank, I’d die looking good.

I ended my day at The Cheesecake Factory bar with an old-fashioned, ride-or-die. I ordered two, because I deserved it, and texted Jon:

“All done.”

The FaceTime came in before I even set my phone down.

I laughed, popped in my AirPods, and set him up against the ketchup bottle so he could watch me devour the chicken fettuccine alfredo I ordered and flirt like a lovesick fool.

I ordered my Uber after a third drink and floated home in a happy buzz, tipsy on whiskey and a man I hadn’t even kissed yet.

The Amazon package was waiting when I got back—Nacho’s flight carrier.

I dragged it upstairs and FaceTimed Jon again, this time from my closet floor as I packed and modeled each outfit like I was going on America’s Next Top Girlfriend.

He gave his approvals, threw in some jokes, and we ended the night with the same ritual: phone by the pillow, hearts wide open, sleep tugging at our eyelids.

It felt like something was happening. Something wild, something reckless, something terrifying and perfect.

And if this was all some elaborate April Fools joke, then honestly? I didn ’ t care. I was all in.